That First Step
by CSKazaam
Summary: A new step, a new beginning... but are new beginnings all they're cracked up to be? A young Zack wonders as he turns away from everything familiar and comforting toward an uncertain future. A 1920's Detective story.


**Author's Note:** Long time no post! But I have an excuse - I've been moving. And then fighting the grand battle of getting Internet set up, and getting settled into my new house ...

Anyway, I've actually had this done for a while, since I was writing it while I was gearing up to move. Just a short oneshot for my 1920's Detective verse, about new places and new beginnings. I think we've all probably been here before. Not written from Zack's POV this time.

Written for the prompt "Empty" from 50 Scenes.

* * *

><p><strong>That First Step<strong>

**An FF7 Detective Story**

**By**

**Kazaam**

* * *

><p>Zack propped the last photo up on the desk, against the wall. After a moment of consideration, he adjusted it, then stepped back, pleased with himself.<p>

He'd just moved into his new apartment. Finally, he had a place for his very own! It was something he'd dreamed of ever since he'd been a kid, out on the streets. He glanced around the room, a thrilled grin spreading across his face.

It was a single room, with a bed at one end, across from the door, and an old desk setting against the wall in between. There was a window above the bed, which would let in light during the day, but was currently dark with night setting in. A scraggly curtain covered half of it. In the corner, near the door, there was a tiny stove for cooking. A recessed closet stood opposite the desk.

The small room didn't have much, but it was his! And he didn't have much to put in it, so it wasn't as if he needed a lot of room. He had a few changes of clothes, a pair of shoes, and a handful of mementos, and that was it.

Tomorrow, he'd start his first day as a real detective! He couldn't believe his luck – he was going to be working with the great Sephiroth himself. He'd admired the man ever since he learned the word "detective," following his extraordinary cases in the papers. It was Sephiroth that made Zack realize what he wanted to do for a living – he just never thought he'd be doing it with his own hero! He was sure Angeal had set him up with Sephiroth, because there was no way the detective would have chosen a nobody like himself to be his partner otherwise. So Zack knew he had a lot to live up to, and he was determined to do his best! He'd impress Sephiroth for sure.

To celebrate, Sephiroth had bought him a new suit, saying that it was time Zack started looking professional. It was the one thing Zack had hanging up in his closet, and he was incredibly proud of it. But once Zack started making a paycheck, he was determined to pay Sephiroth back for it – he wasn't in the habit of accepting handouts from anybody, even if Sephiroth said it was a gift. It was just too much.

Excited about the big day tomorrow, Zack scanned his eyes over the yellowed, black and white photographs he'd just tacked onto the wall above the desk. They were all the stories about the famous detective from the papers. He'd even kept the ones from before the time he could read, recognizing them either from photos of the man, or the appearance of the detective's name, which he'd memorized. His favorite one had a photo of Sephiroth glancing to the side of the cameraman, dressed in his iconic black suit, fedora bring hanging low to shade his eyes, and long, silver hair catching the light. He was proud of the collection. He was pretty sure he had every story there was.

The only other item he owned that he prized as highly was another newspaper clipping that he'd propped upon the desk itself. It was a photograph of him and Angeal, a casual snapshot taken just after they'd exited a police car after solving a case together, before Angeal had fully noticed the presence of the reporters. Zack must've been around eight or nine at the time.

He happily gazed at the photo for a moment, then cast his eyes around the room. But after a while, the grin faded as the newness of the place began to diminish, and he took in the bare walls, floor, and all but vacant desk. The stark emptiness of the place started to dawn on him.

Aside from the suit in the closet, all he had was pinned to the wall or still packed in a bag on the bed. Looking back to the bed, he tried to convince himself that he really had more than he thought he did, that it really wasn't that empty. Sliding off his shoes, he placed them just beneath the edge of the bed. There! That was better. Hmm, and maybe the photograph on the desk could be moved to the side just a little, to improve appearances, like so … There! Now things were set.

… The small room still looked empty. Zack's face fell.

He'd been excited to move out of Angeal's place, where he'd been living ever since the police chief had insisted on taking him in. Not that he didn't like living there, but it was the excitement of moving out and being on his own, and actually making something of himself that had him jumping at the chance. He was going to be a _real_ detective. Not just some tagalong kid sidekick with nothing better to do but follow a policeman around. He was gonna _be_ somebody now.

But, now that he was here … Somehow, it didn't seem as glamorous as he thought it was going to be.

There was a _creak_ in the hallway outside the room, signaling the arrival of one of his neighbors at the top of the stairs. Footsteps made their way across the bare, wooden floor stopping somewhere short of his room; a door groaned open and he heard voices. The door slammed shut.

He was beginning to miss Angeal.

He wondered what the man was doing now. Did he miss Zack, too? He supposed Angeal would be fixing dinner about now. At the thought of that, Zack's stomach rumbled. That was one thing he would dearly miss – Angeal's cooking. Gazing at the stove in the corner, he supposed he'd have to figure out how to cook for himself now.

He supposed he'd be doing a lot of things for himself – by himself – now.

A sudden pang of loneliness struck him.

What on Earth was he doing? He didn't want to be here. This wasn't what he wanted to be doing. Was it? He stared at the single photo of Angeal. He just wanted to be back there. He just wanted to keep on doing what he'd been doing – he and Angeal were a _team_. He didn't want that to change.

He just wanted to go _home_.

He didn't really know anything about Sephiroth. He knew all about his famous cases, and the man was nice enough when he'd met him … but what would it be like to work for him? Did he even _want_ Zack there? Or was he just doing a favor for Angeal? Was Zack just going to end up a third wheel, tagging along and trying to find some way to make himself useful? Sephiroth was _brilliant_. Zack was just … Zack.

He was nobody - a kid off the streets that a policeman had once taken pity on.

He just … he just wanted to _belong_ somewhere. He just wanted to be someplace where people could count on him, where he could be important and useful. Where people _wanted_ him around.

Angeal had wanted him around. Zack was pretty sure about it, anyway, even when the man was chasing him away, or threatening to lock him up for interfering with his cases. Zack could tell, even when Angeal tried to hide behind that scowl. So why had he ever thought this would be a good idea, to move away and work for Sephiroth?

Oh yeah … it had been Angeal's idea. He'd known how much Zack had idolized the detective. Zack supposed Angeal thought it would be good for him. Of course, he'd been ecstatic when Angeal had told him.

Somehow, though … the bleak reality of this empty room seemed to suck that enthusiasm right out of him. He started glumly at the pictures. Turning, he shuffled to the bed, then back toward the door.

Five steps. That's all it took. He studied the room from his new vantage point.

Maybe he would get a rug with his first paycheck. That could help.

Right now, though, he didn't want to be here. Taking a quick moment to grab his shoes and shove them back on, he stepped outside the room, letting the door swing shut on vocal, rusted hinges. He'd go find something to eat for supper.

When he bent to lock the door, a strange feeling swept through him. _This is _yours_ now. All yours. All you have. You'll be coming back to _this_, every night._

He stared at the doorknob for a moment, looked down the narrow, windowless hallway to the stairway. He took in the plain, empty surroundings and blank, wooden doors decorated only with copper numbers, heard rustlings of the various occupants inside.

Then he turned his back on the room, headed for the stairs, and left.

* * *

><p><strong>End<strong>


End file.
